


Pure Dream Consciousness

by ssa_archivist



Category: Smallville
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-01-19
Updated: 2004-01-19
Packaged: 2017-11-01 04:38:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/352014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssa_archivist/pseuds/ssa_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reality is what we make it. Please read and review.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pure Dream Consciousness

## Pure Dream Consciousness

by EscapeToCity

[]()

* * *

**PURE DREAM CONSCIOUSNESS**

By: EscapeToCity 

Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine. They are property of DC Comics/Time Warner, Millar-Gough, etc. 

He'll be mine. He'll never be mine. I'm too ugly, too pale, too rich, too poor. 

Lover man, oh where can you be. Fucking her, I'm sure. 

The city is out there. And it is magnificent. It's heady and wild and dangerous and deep and it sustains me somewhat. The white lines help my heart to pump. I drift through these days, these nights as if I am already forgotten. No one will come back. No one will be here. No one will hold my hand. 

"Who would want to?" 

I thought he was the answer. A man will hold me. A man will keep me sane. He'll be hung and beautiful and reek of sweat and he won't leave. Daddy never wanted to leave. 

(Hit him again! But Mr. Luthor! Hit him again!) 

I'm not good enough. Never was. I'm drunk at six in the morning and my eyes hurt. He's fucking her. There. In that bed on those cheap sheets and I hate him but loathe myself more because she's easy and kind and soft and smiling and I am nothing but wealthy and spoiled. 

"I like it. Make me come." 

He liked it. Hated me. The object was always in the goal, in the rush, in the moment, in the spurt of white gold across my cheeks. It was worth it for that. For ten seconds or so, the taste assaulting my lips, I could believe he gave a fuck, wanted me, needed me, loved me. Delusions run rampant. I'm too rich and ugly to love. 

"He didn't mean to hurt you, Lex. He's young." 

Excuses from another jaded suitor. Another loser. Another runner-up. He's in that cheap room surrounded by transient passion and pretend commitment and she wants to make me feel better. 

(The voltage. My God.) 

I just want to die. Why I am alive anyway? To spend money? To dance? I can dance in hell. I can burn everything away. I look around and all I see is greed and temporary interest. This world is on its last legs. It would be proper to make a quick exit. 

"Chloe, dear, you never had a chance." 

We're knocking back shots. She talks to Tina and it continues to blizzard around the back room, in the car, in my head. The throbbing never ends and I think about his cock, the size of it, the shaft, the ridge, the way it made me cry. It always hurt when he took me, every time. 

Peach snapps and body licks and she's laughing and I know she's where I am. No one will love us. 

"You sure are pretty. But she's better." 

The car is going faster and faster somewhere I've never been. East. West. I wish he were here to kiss my neck and stop my nightmares but he's gone. He was never here. He never cared. And she is gasping and trying to suck me off and I wish she would stop but a mouth's a mouth. 

"You always said that, Clark." 

Suction. Force. Drive. Friction. He used me like a vacuum to service his petty needs. I see green lights in the sky and wish I had remembered. I should have hurt him. Hugged him. I want him. Here, dead, there, tomorrow, against me, sliding like a clam down a cold china plate. 

"You like it like that, Lex?" 

No, I never did. I never liked graspy, desperate sex with faceless hearts. Something about linoleum and silk. 

"You like that, baby?" 

(He likes it rough, Doctor) 

I wonder if this is revenge. I wonder if she always tried this hard with him. He's a hard one to pleasure. Even stoned off his ass on his precious red crack, he's selfish. 

"I wish I was gone." 

For a moment, as the car approaches the Centennial Park drawbridge, I wonder, I reflect, I try to stop. He loves me. He does, he did, he wants to, he tried. I'm too hard to love. I'm too ugly, too rich. He plays in traffic, he wants me, he holds me. He wants head. He wants my money. 

"I'm so sorry, Lex." 

He's always sorry. For fucking everyone over. For lying, for failing me. Her. Them. Father, you were right. I think of zebra prison prints and Lionel's panting glazed stare after shower time. He's probably enjoying it. 

"I can't bear to see you hurt. Don't cry." 

People like to see you cry. Beg. Ache and roll along the floor crying and moaning for acceptance. It makes them feel superior. 

"I loved him too." 

(I love you son...) 

Chloe is finished now. I don't even remember the peak, the swirl. She swallowed, good for her. Last request, last drink, etc. 

"Lex, the bridge!" 

The scream doesn't last long. It blessedly leaves my ears just like the day I screamed, the day this all began, ten years ago by a creek, near a farm, by a forest in a city I wanted so badly to call home. 

"I've been trying all week to get away, Lex." 

I think everything slowed down and just for a moment I felt he was there, guiding me, laughing, crying, pleading with me to save us, to save us. 

"Save us, Lex." 

He never did understand fate nor logic. He was a fool. She's grabbing my arm and heaving and I just smile. Hob's River rushes beneath us and I wonder what the press will say. 

There's a moment, just a short one, when I fade back into the past, into my dead heart and remember the night we ate pizza from the stove and sang along to the radio and I sucked him off on that cheap dorm bed on that hot July night and I wonder if any of that mattered to him, did he care? Did he remember? Was I a nameless mouth with a cartoon tongue and cynical eye? Was I good enough? 

"Why do you think I'm leaving you? Don't freak out." 

I think about how much I loved him, cared, needed and craved. About how much I loathed his indecision, his shadow, his duplicity. How I loved the scent of his sweatshirts and laundry and wet taut summer skin. Muscles sliding beneath my gaze and eyes wide and lost. Deceptive and dreamy. 

How I loved when he came down my throat, the citrus breeze and freedom I felt and hoped he felt. Didn't feel. 

"Please, don't do this!" 

There's a flash of flannel-- are my eyes blue?-- and I just start giggling. 

Cassandra was wrong. 

(You stopped the car.) 

I wonder if this is real. 

(Wake up. Nothing's real.) 

I am. 

END of  
"Pure Dream Consciousness" 


End file.
